


The fire in your eyes

by LittleFace



Category: The Cult (Band)
Genre: Billy doesn't understand his feelings yet, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, kinda slowburny, my first published fic pls be nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24109483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleFace/pseuds/LittleFace
Summary: The Cult are in the midst of recording the 'Love' album in 1985 in the remote Mansion Studio in Oxfordshire. What are a bunch of mischievous Northern lads in the middle of nowhere to do when boredom crops up? Billy and Ian are forced to reminisce on the nature of their relationship since they started the band in Billy's Brixton flat in 1983.
Relationships: Ian Astbury/Billy Duffy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first published fic. Pls be nice.  
> I was very hesitant as to whether to publish my fic as it seems there are no prior existing fanworks (nevermind shipping fics) for this great underrated band (and adorable shipping). It seems I'm the first.  
> We need more DuffBury fics!
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> As always with any RPF please remember use viewer discretion as I obviously respect the privacy etc of Ian and Billy and the fact they have partners lol

It was cold in the recording studio that day.  
The Mansion was a vast, open space where even whispers reverberated down wooden paneled halls.  
It was a repurposed domestic dwelling from another century which was now home to what was to be one of the biggest up-and-coming bands of the eighties; The Cult.  
They’d finally scored their first hit single in England, and after two years living under the guise of an ‘alternative’ outfit, ‘She Sells Sanctuary’ had been the life saver they so desperately needed before the so-called ‘Gothic’ scene threatened swallow them whole.  
“Whatever you did there- do more of it.”  
Those words had been uttered from the record execs down to the band following the success of ‘Sanctuary’, and now they were preparing to show the world just who The Cult really were.  
Not an underground, one-hit wonder, run of the mill gothic rock clone, no, The Cult were a rock band.  
They liked guitar driven, blues based rock music.  
And if the British music press didn’t like it, the creative backbones of the band, Ian and Billy, were going to have no qualms telling them where to shove it. 

It had been a particularly boring day for Ian Astbury, the singer and front man of the band, who strolled into studio A, his signature long black hair flowing behind him.  
“Check out what I found,”  
He directed the comment to his writing partner and best friend, Billy Duffy who was currently preparing to lay down the guitars for a track currently called ‘Phoenix’.  
“Go on, I haven’t got all day, you’ve done your bit for today you lucky sod,”  
Billy mumbled from behind his humongous white Falcon guitar, his slick quiffed hair was a staggeringly similar shade to the guitar in his lap.  
The skull of a ram was proudly placed on the control desk near to where Billy sat, decorated with a headscarf and other numerous pieces of jewelry- most likely the latter were additions from Ian.  
“I want our album to sound like how this looks,” Ian grinned.  
Billy paused from where he was noodling around on his guitar to inspect the object with knitted brows.  
“You talk in riddles sometimes Ian, you know that?” he returned to fiddling with the effects pedal at his feet, “Where did you manage to find it, anyway?”  
“The attic, me and Jamie were up there earlier, we found some right good shite up there,”  
Ian wheezed slightly as he laughed, exhaling smoke from the cigarette intertwined in his fingers. 

Billy Duffy thought fondly of his writing partner, and couldn’t help but smile at how far they’d come in two years.  
From their early days of writing songs for Death Cult in his Brixton flat with only the sound of sirens and the crumpling of many-a-beer can to accompany the creative writing process, where they were now had felt like eons away to those two lads living in 1983.  
They had on-site caterers, a producer who had worked with other successful artists on board, and each member had their own room.  
Silently, although neither young man would admit it, they both missed the mattress on which they so often passed out on together in that grimy Brixton flat.  
Waking up next to Billy had become a commodity Ian had started to take for granted.  
He didn’t quite realise how much he’d enjoyed his first view of the day being the guitarist’s softly angled ruddy face sleeping quietly beside him. The only noise out of Billy was always the shallow breathing rising and falling out of his slumbering form. And how his hair- his natural brunette at the time- always fell into its natural flat, messy state.  
Ian hadn’t realised that seeing Billy in this vulnerable, comatose-like state had only served to solidify the feelings he held for his best friend that day in the studio. 

Ian had however understood he liked Billy shortly after their first tour as the Death Cult, when a transit van and a tiny back-pockets-worth of change to fund the tour had ensured the band continued to live within small quarters to one another.  
There had been a small incident during this time period, when Ian’s arms had unconsciously found their way around Billy’s naked torso mid-slumber during an instance of one of those many transit-van campouts.  
Ian hadn’t even clocked on fully to what had happened until he felt a hard shove and Billy’s unmistakable tone of fury utter out,  
“What the fuck, man!”  
The words had rebounded against the walls of the small putrid petrol stinking vehicle as Billy recoiled back from the embrace.  
Ian had struggled to find the words to apologise for what had happened.  
He’d awoken sure, and he’d found his arms around the guitarist, but he had made no effort to remove himself from the situation he’d unconsciously put himself in.  
“S…sorry mate I didn’t mean to, I was sleeping…”  
“If I’d wanted a shag tonight I’d of found a fucking bird,”  
Billy grunted, angled his body towards the wall of the van, pulled up the thin blanket around himself and went back to sleep.

Nobody could refute the air of masculinity that Billy Duffy exuded. It was hard coded into his being.  
Ian had understood early on that his feelings for the Mancunian lad would more than likely be met with rejection.  
Billy was not gay. Not in any universe imaginable.  
Ian had tried to hide from those feelings for the best part of 2 years now.  
He could of sworn though, that perhaps Billy wasn’t quite so sure of how he felt.  
Many times on stage he’d kiss Ian on the cheek whilst he was singing, or there had been photo shoots where his hands were placed somewhere on Ian’s body in a possessive manner.  
Could there be any possibility in the world that Billy reciprocated his feelings?  
“Find much else up there?” Billy idly replied, still concentrating hard on achieving the tone he wanted from his guitar.  
Ian was drawn back into the present, staring hard at the skull from earlier.  
He shook his head,  
“Nothing you’d find interesting.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys chill out for the night and a joke gone awry from Ian arises some uncomfortable feelings in Billy.  
> Billy reminisces about the day Ian turned up at his flat to begin the band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer:  
> As always with any RPF please remember use viewer discretion as I obviously respect the privacy etc of Ian and Billy and the fact they have partners lol

The Mansion served as the perfect playground for a group of bustling young lads in their mid-20s.  
It was spacious, their every need was catered to and waited on, there was plenty of music gear to experiment with, and lastly, it boasted a kitchen that was always stocked full of alcohol.  
However, when the studio settled for the day and its employees returned home -leaving the building to return to its original domestic purpose- boredom was an inevitable thing that would often crop up on the menu.  
They were in the middle of nowhere, with no likelihood of finding anywhere even remotely resembling a club other than the local pub just down the road.  
And the local pub’s nightly quiz just didn’t quite whet the appetite of a bunch of mischievous 20-odd year olds looking for a laugh and a drink.

And out of all of them, Ian liked to drink the most; there was absolutely no disputing that.  
For as long as he’d known him, Billy had always known Ian to consume alcohol as if it was water.  
He’d worried lately that possibly Ian’s drinking was becoming an addictive habit rather than simply a social lubricant, but he dared to mention nothing for fear of looking like a hypocrite, as everyone in the band drank a lot.  
Wine was Ian’s favourite and The Mansion stocked plenty of that.  
So when the singer strutted into the huge living room that night- his appearance demanding the attention of the entirety of the room- it was no surprise that he was already intoxicated.  
He slammed an empty bottle of red wine on the polished wooden table.  
Jamie was the first to cut through the silence that had immediately ceased the prior conversation before Ian turned up with a shrieking laugh.  
“Jesus Christ Ian,”  
Billy swallowed hard from where he was sat in the corner, almost choking on the ice in his Bacardi and Coke.  
Ian’s fashion sense had been becoming increasingly more daring in recent months.  
He’d graduated from his punkish Native American inspired look of acid-wash jeans and tank tops into something of a more effeminate and new-romantic style. He was beginning to resemble a long-lost member of Adam and the Ants, and he’d encouraged his band-mates to follow suit.  
A couple of new additions had appeared to Ian’s image tonight- a billowing white shirt was worn loosely hanging off of his torso, revealing a pasty white slither of skin over tight pants and an oversized belt that hung low on his hips.  
So that’s what else he found in that fucking attic. 

“You look like a fucking curtain, mate,” Jamie continued to jibe.  
Billy couldn’t help but feel that the singer had this planned all along. A conspiracy against him- Ian was attempting to tease out his guitarist’s feelings by force.  
And by god was it working.  
Every part of his rational brain was telling him this was just his best mate. A laugh. Nothing more.  
The part of his brain that had been increasingly harder to shut up since that night -that goddamn night in the van- was screaming at him.  
He should not be having feelings like this.  
Billy gazed over to where Ian was joking around with Jamie on the other side of the room, and fought the urges rapidly rising inside him.  
God, how he hated seeing Ian being so goddamn touchy-feely with the bass-player.  
Billy had always automatically felt the urge to protect the front man early on, his hands always unconsciously finding their way on to Ian’s form in some way or another in numerous instances.  
This man was his muse; he’d never met anyone he gelled with quite so well creatively.  
They may have their ups and downs, and their personalities often clashed, but there was something in the volatile nature of their relationship that made it work. 

He remembered the day that Ian had showed up on the doorstep of his Brixton flat like it was yesterday.  
An overgrown Mohawk, a long overcoat to shield against the winter cold and a pair of handmade moccasins peeking out of the bottom of rolled up jeans, had signified to Billy that this was the strange man he’d met briefly whilst he was on tour with his last band, Theatre of Hate.  
“Hi, my brother sent me here, he said you’re not in a band anymore,”  
he set the plastic carrier bag that contained the entirety of his worldly belongings on the table,  
“I’m Ian, do you want to start a band with me?”  
It had taken a matter of seconds for Billy to mutter the words ‘yes’ in response.  
And so began the beginning of many nights bonding over their shared similar upbringings, love of punk and classic rock.  
“Don’t you think it’s fucking stupid how nobody can stand Led Zeppelin anymore? I mean have they even bothered to listen?”  
“Jesus Ian, thank fuck- finally someone who gets it!”  
It became apparent early on how well they worked together as a creative unit, and after a while as much as Billy hated to admit it- they worked well further than just that too.

When Ian moved into the small bedsit, it began a strange but comfortable dynamic.  
They became somewhat of an old married couple.  
They slept in the same bed, prepared each other’s meals and of course- sometimes bickered.  
A balmy night in early spring ’83 was a particularly fond memory of Billy’s.  
He recalled an argument had started earlier in the day, and didn’t remember what it was over- most likely something petty- as most of their arguments were.  
Ian had retreated to Billy’s room after he left to go out, and returned late from the pub to find his front man fast asleep on his bed against his lyric sheets, a trickle of drool making its way steadfastly out of the side of his mouth.  
There was something oddly cute about how Ian was so vulnerable in that state.  
He’d seen Ian get into fistfights and been witness to countless recollections of gig brawls (usually with the front-man at the center of them).  
Billy could tell that underneath the deceptive soft features of his friend was a sometimes violent and unbridled bundle of pure energy that when detonated- could be fatal.  
He also knew Ian hadn’t had the best childhood either, and often felt indebted to give his new friend the best life he could.  
A few scrapes and scratches from fights in mid-seventies Manchester seemed nothing in comparison to what Ian had experienced.  
He was a fighter that was for sure.  
Billy wasn’t sure whether to wake the singer because he quite enjoyed watching Ian sleep for some odd reason.  
A reason that he just couldn’t quite pinpoint.  
So when he retrieved one of the spare blankets from the other room and draped it over Ian’s curled up sleeping form, he couldn’t help but repress the obvious feeling that was beginning to make a home inside his heart.

He was jolted back into the present.  
Before he knew it, Ian was jokingly sat in his lap, his hands grasping for the drink Billy had almost choked on moments earlier.  
“Sod off, get your own,” he grunted, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with Ian in his lap.  
The band had a history of pulling pranks like this on one another; trousers pulled down on stage, women’s underwear stuffed into instruments, the standards.  
Nothing was off limits to the band, as long as it garnered a laugh.  
He felt the overwhelming urge to shove the singer off of him, but surely he would look strange getting so flustered over what was simply a joke to the other members of the band in the room.  
“But, Billy…”  
Ian put on a false high voice, his breath stinking of liquor.  
Fuck, think, Billy.  
He needed to wheedle his way out of this situation before it grew any more awkward.  
God forbid Ian in his drunken haze noticed the glaring truth of Billy’s affection for the singer.  
“Here,” he coolly shoved the half empty glass into the singer’s hand,  
“Don’t give up your day job mate-you’re a shit lap dancer, now get off.”  
Ian slid off Billy’s lap, eyeing his next target- Mark who was their guest drummer for the album.  
“I’m going to get another drink,” Billy muttered, sidling awkwardly behind the couch the other members were sat on, and making a beeline for his room on the second floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy retreats to the safety of his bedroom to reflect on what just happened in his journal. Detrimentally, his drunken state leads to a carelessness that might just cost him his secret after all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer:  
> As always with any RPF please remember use viewer discretion as I obviously respect the privacy etc of Ian and Billy and the fact they have partners lol

“Fucking hell, calm down,” Billy breathed to himself when he shut the door behind him as quietly as possible.  
The last slither of the day’s light bathed his room in a red tint, casting an amaranthine haze on everything it touched.  
He let the bed take his weight, not bothering to switch on the light, preferring the comforting solitude of the dark.  
His mind was rushing with thoughts he could no longer run from.  
Every time he thought about what he’d just seen, he hated his reaction to it- mentally and physically.  
Billy sometimes liked to keep a journal of the things he’d experienced since he’d left his mother’s home in Wythenshawe in 1980.  
It was full of personal stories- memories that he wanted to treasure lest he forget they even happened in his oft drunken demeanor.  
It was hard to see in the dark, but he pulled out a biro pen from the side drawer of the bedside cabinet, and propped the journal up against his legs. 

_‘What the fuck is wrong with me?  
I keep having this thoughts- intrusive a lot of the time- about Ian. He’s my mate- probably my best mate. I like him, sure. But just as a mate. ONLY as a mate.  
But why do I keep doing these weird things around him?  
I get possessive and jealous sometimes even. It pisses me off when other people get too touchy feely with him, like Jamie did earlier. I know it was just a fucking joke…  
I wanted to get up and pull Ian off him. Nobody else should be allowed to touch him like that.  
But when Ian did come over to me, god that was so awkward. Fuck me, it was awkward.  
When he gets so close to me like that, its…. its the same feeling I’ve had with girls in the past.  
Fucking hell…I just want to get this album finished and fuck off on tour.  
I’ll meet some girls- they’ll sort this shit out in my head.’_

He lifted the pen from the page, a wash of calm coming over him.  
That felt better, cathartic even.  
It was still early but Billy was knackered, as the alcohol he had consumed earlier was beginning to introduce a hazy sense of sleepiness in him.  
He’d been working most of the day on attempting to get the tones right for ‘Phoenix’, a song that was to be a heavily distorted guitar driven track.  
Ian had shown a lot of enthusiasm for the piece when he had shown him the idea for the song.  
“Finally, something with more grit, it’s more who we really are as a band.”  
He smiled as he set the journal to his side, closed his eyes and felt content that his creative force was shaping the band into what they really wanted to be.

-

It was 3AM when Ian had sobered up enough to clamber up the stairs to his room.  
It was pitch black on the landing, as there were no city streetlights to serve a healthy dose of light pollution in through the windows.  
One door…two doors…which was his room again?  
He scratched his head through the scarf he had tied around it as he tried to remember which room he had taken residence in.  
Was it this one? The door was open.  
This was surely his room- he never bothered to lock the door after all.

Ian stumbled as he pushed the door further ajar to gain access to the bedroom and felt around.  
When his hand felt the smooth texture of leather wrapped around what felt like an ankle- he recoiled.  
“…Shit…” he hissed.  
Had someone fallen asleep in his bed? No, it can’t have been.  
Jamie and Mark were still downstairs, having passed out hours ago.  
Billy?  
He tried to recall what Billy had worn that day- he remembered seeing him in his usual paisley shirt and black leather trousers.  
This was definitely Billy.  
He considered waking him and telling him he’d gotten the wrong room, but he recalled the earfuls he’d received in the past for doing that. Billy slept like a log, but at a sudden waking he became akin to an enraged bull.  
So instead, Ian felt around for the other vacant side of the double bed and eased himself gently onto the soft duvet.  
A crinkling noise startled the singer and a sharp intake of breath followed.  
‘What the fuck was that?’ he silently thought.  
His hands found themselves retrieving the object that had caused the noise- what felt like a book.  
Then his fingers felt the unmistakable shape of a biro pen.  
No, this was a journal. Had Billy been writing a journal?  
He bit his lip. This was his chance, his one and only chance to find out the truth.  
Billy had been awfully strange earlier from what he could remember. He’d bolted upstairs away from everyone in a way Ian had never seen him do before.  
Usually Billy was as much up for a laugh as the rest of them.  
An insatiable itch in the form of curiosity took hold of him.  
Had Billy been writing about what had just happened that night?  
Holy shit.  
The guitarist was never going to come out with it directly now, was he? He was far too prideful and egocentric for that.  
He took the journal into his hands and felt the smooth pages between the tips of his fingers, the nib of the biro that spoke the words embossed the paper.  
How he longed to find out what those engravings actually read.  
He grinned as he closed the door behind him, and flicked on the landing light.

Should he go to another room to read the journal? No, that might cause unnecessary noise and he didn’t want to risk Billy waking up in the time it took him to read the journal and return it back to it’s prior resting place.  
In the now available light, Ian’s eyes hungrily scanned the anterior of the journal.  
It was nothing fancy- a cheap, hard backed, A5 bottle green book.  
Should he really be doing this? Ian fought with himself.  
Would Billy invade his privacy like this?  
Probably not, Ian knew Billy to be sounder than that, and would never rise to something as undermined as reading someone’s diary.  
But the urge to know just what was going on inside his guitarist’s head was killing him inside. Ian just knew there was something else between them both, more than just friendship.  
He surveyed his immediate surroundings- finding only the bland cream walls dotted with false light from the crystal chandelier fixture on the ceiling to be his only companionship.  
The biro pen was still lodged between the pages in the book that Billy had left it open at, serving as a bookmark.  
It can’t hurt to just look at the page that was open could it? Just as long as that was the only page he read…  
His fingers slowly wedged themselves into the gap that the pen was creating, and eased the journal open.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy wakes to an unnerving situation and Ian reflects on what he discovered in Billy's journal.   
> Last chapter! Hope you enjoyed this little fic I wrote!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I stated in the first chapter's notes this fic was intended to the the precursor to a longer fic I wrote in which Ian and Billy's relationship is realised so this is kinda slowburny. I may post the fic but I don't know yet. If I do I will probably do a lot of editing seen as it was cheesy as heeeellllllll LOL
> 
> By the way, I try to portray the members in dialogue as accurately as I can and as such I use British idioms in this chapter that foreign readers may not be familiar with.   
> A quick translation:
> 
> -The word Billy uses: 'Nowt' means 'Nothing'.
> 
> -'Pissed' in American English is often used to denote anger, in Britain it is used more to denote drunkness. 
> 
> Also one last thing....Jamie cooking eggs for the band in a lil apron...too cute to imagine LOL
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> As always with any RPF please remember use viewer discretion as I obviously respect the privacy etc of Ian and Billy and the fact they have partners lol

It was the warm morning sun gently caressing his face that awoke Billy the next morning.   
His eyes cracked open.   
Batting away the sleep induced eye residue, he got his first view of the day.   
Billy grunted as the light fully blasted its way into his vision, the backs of his eyelids turning a bright reddish-pink as he shut them almost immediately again.   
Fuck, he felt rough.   
He was still wearing the clothes he’d worn the prior day, having apparently passed out and not bothered to change or get into bed properly.   
Then, to his immediate left he noticed his journal -still open- and the door ajar.   
“Oh fuck…”  
His eyes widened as he realised his absent-mindedness and scanned the room for possible signs of anyone having entered whilst he was unconscious.   
“Fuck, fuck fuck, fuck,”   
Sweeping himself up onto his feet, Billy paced the room ferociously with the journal in his grip.   
It didn’t seem to be that anyone had entered… and the book was in the same position he’d left it in when he’d gone to sleep…so perhaps he was safe.  
But still…he couldn’t be sure.   
He was pretty drunk last night, and it wouldn’t have surprised him to have slept through someone entering the room whilst he was out cold.  
He needed to find Ian. 

The digital clock on the bedside read 7:40 AM, so the singer was sure to still be asleep. Ian was always the last riser of them all and most days only roused from his rest past midday.   
Billy placed the journal into his bedside drawer and crept out of his room, down the corridor to where Ian was staying.   
Predictably- the door was open.   
Pausing beside the doorframe, he listened hard to see if he could hear Ian’s signature snoring.   
Silence.   
Billy’s heart shot into to his throat. This was not normal.   
Then, he noticed something else abnormal- the corridor light was still on.   
He hadn’t noticed it at first, as the morning sun was drowning out the artificial light in the room.   
None of the staff had arrived to work yet either, plus it wasn’t common to see the studio staff around the accommodation portion of The Mansion anyway.   
Thoughts rushing at a million miles per hour began flooding into Billy’s head- what the other band members would say, how much he would be teased…and if it would get back to Ian…what if it was Ian that had somehow read the journal in the first place? He couldn’t bear to think.

He became acutely aware of the emptiness of his stomach when it erupted a low rumble that disrupted the quiet of the Sunday morning peace.   
“I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he whispered out loud to himself.  
It was Sunday, so the caterers had the day off. He’d have to see to feeding himself today.   
He descended the stairs to the first stairwell.  
“What the fuck…”  
At the bottom of the stairs, Ian was sprawled out on the floor sleeping.   
He could hear the distant murmurs of Jamie and Mark’s voices drifting from the kitchen down to the corridor where he and a yet undiscovered Ian resided.   
The scene began constructing itself in Billy’s head,  
‘Jamie and Mark must have passed out in the living room, and Ian mustn’t have managed to make it to bed due to being too pissed…’  
But the relief was short lived, because that didn’t explain the landing light.   
Somebody had to have come upstairs last night.   
Either way, the distant hiss and smell of eggs being served up drew Billy’s form automatically further down the steps.   
When he got closer, Ian’s sleeping body was exuding soft snores, the sliver of skin that had so awkwardly teased him last night was rising and falling between the billowing white shirt that was still undone.   
An overwhelming urge to drive a sharp kick from his socked foot to that stomach arose in the guitarist.   
Instead, he continued to walk towards the kitchen.

-

“Are you alright lad? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Mark asked from where he was lounging in one of the wooden dining chairs.   
“He may well have done, this place is ancient,” a busied Jamie added, teasing the egg he was cooking from sticking to the pan with a spatula.   
Billy took a seat at the table alongside Mark,  
“It’s nowt, just a bit rough that’s all…have any of you bothered to wake his Highness yet in the corridor?”  
Jamie shot a confused look to the guitarist,  
“Who? Oh… you mean Ian? We haven’t seen him yet today, we thought he went upstairs to bed last night after we passed out.”   
Billy’s hands began smoothing out the messy flop of long hair that had called itself a quiff the day before,  
“Yeah, he’s out cold at the bottom of the stairs. I thought about waking him but I thought it best to leave him.”  
“Speaking of leaving, what was up with you last night Billy? You ran off upstairs early,” Mark questioned.  
Billy could feel the probing tension and distrust growing in the air between him and the other two band members.  
“I was just knackered mate, felt a bit rough as well actually, thought I’d best throw in the towel early.”  
He knew very well what he had done last night was out of character for him.   
Was this the new normal?   
Watching his back constantly to make sure nobody knew about his dark secret?   
He hated how much affection he felt for the singer, he detested it with his entire being.   
Could other people see it? Could they perceive his thoughts and see through his desperate attempts to cover up his true feelings?   
The best he could do was try to continue doing what he’d always done, and ignore the thoughts as much as he could.  
Billy took a deep breath,  
“So Jamie, are you doing any bacon with those eggs?”

-

When Ian awoke at the bottom of the stairs that afternoon, it was euphoria that he first encountered.   
He didn’t even bother to perceive the hangover waging a small war inside his head.  
The rough textured rug that was slowly imprinting itself into the left side of his face folded as he maneuvered his body to stand upright.   
From the moment he woke, wandered from the corridor into the bathroom on the second floor, and slowly peeled the clothes he wore from his slender body, he had a grin on his face.   
Because he had been right.   
The mellow water from the shower enveloped his body like a warm hug.   
The hug he so rightfully should be receiving from Billy.  
His trick had worked, but he’d never expected it to go quite this well.   
Ian knew from when he read Billy’s diary that there was no use in being forthright just now.   
If he tried to be affectionate, Billy was sure to reject his advances still because he was so clearly uncomfortable with the prospect of liking- possibly loving- his front-man.  
No- Ian was going to have to wait.   
It was going to be painful, excruciating even to wait this out.  
Ian was going to have to see Billy see, date and sleep with women, all whilst harboring his true feelings for the singer of his band.   
All that Ian could do now, was continue to tease Billy.   
To take every small window of opportunity handed to him to show Billy his own feelings without scaring him away.   
Like the many nights after the one in the van, he would need to be cautious.   
But not cautious enough to give the impression he didn’t care.   
But Ian already knew deep down Billy knew Ian liked him back.   
For now, Ian would have to wonder what Billy’s lips felt like to kiss.  
The water carried on trickling down...


End file.
